


So long ago and out of sight

by thebookhunter



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: M/M, RPF, Reminiscing, and then slash the fuck out of it because we can, okay so yeah, spin some yarns about gods and heroes, the myths the legends, uuuh what the fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:30:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookhunter/pseuds/thebookhunter
Summary: THIS IS NOW AN "OUTTAKE."It was a first approach to how the song Carry Fire came to be.Ever since I wrote it, I've changed my mind on a lot of things, so I wrote a new version that reflects the things I've learned a bit better. ...But I keep learning, so god knows where we will end up with this. (Listen, fifty years is a lot of years and people are complicated. We do this in stages.)I still like things about this version though, and I know some people like it too, so I'm not taking it down, but bear in mind it's not "up to date" (with my own HC), so to speak.For one, I wrote this as if Robert kind of drifted or stumbled into that song and that mood. HAH.**The way things are going, there's going to be a revision of On This Day too. My views (headcanon?) on their early nineties' dynamics have very much evolved. Hell, I had not listened to Fate of Nations yet... Oh well, all in good time.It's still a nice piece (number?) to read, I'm proud of it.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
Comments: 20
Kudos: 19





	So long ago and out of sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ledbythreads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ledbythreads/gifts).

> Uh, yeah. Cough cough. 
> 
> This is. Not my usual thing. I'm not even sure how I feel about writing this, let alone publishing it. HOWEVER.
> 
> If you perchance follow my Tumblr, you can't have failed to notice it has been seized by a sudden all-consuming passion for Led Zeppelin, the music and the people (to the chagrin of many followers, I'm sure. Bless you guys, sorry.) (But not really, you know what I mean. Anyway.)
> 
> Aaaand well, cough cough, so (imaginary, mythical) Jimmy and Robert started to speak to me (not literally) andddd I have been listening. And here's what they've been saying.
> 
> BIG FAT SHAKY DISCLAIMER: This is OF COURSE nothing but a fictional account of stuff I have no idea about, about people I (sob) don't know, written from empathy and imagination, born out of pure overwhelming love and fascination. Although it's based on real events and real people, and it uses real timelines and public anecdotes and such, IT'S NOT REAL, AND DOESN'T AIM TO PASS FOR REAL. IT'S JUST A STORY AND THAT'S ALL IT WANTS TO BE. 
> 
> (And god Robert forgive me for the intrusion and don't tell Jimmy pls he'll eat me and not in the nice way.)

An email from the boys, a demo attached. “Still rough,” said Justin. “But you get the idea.”

Yeah, he usually does.

Alright then, see what we’ve got.

An obsessive rhythm and an Eastern influence. He smiles immediately, already excited about this. Oh, they spoil him rotten. He listens, grinning all the way. 

Listens again. No true structure yet, only a few ideas, references, possibilities. He paints his own voice over it. Rough brushstrokes, whatever comes to mind. At this point, he’s just playing. If he plays long enough, the song will begin to precipitate and settle down, and the peaks and valleys will appear, then the woods and waters and caves. The full landscape will only be revealed when the rest of the band get to respond to what he’s throwing at them. It’s a good system. Always worked for him. 

Well, then. Let’s see. He keeps a notebook close for when the words come, he’ll record the vocals when they settle into a shape that feels good. He finds the lyrics coming to him these days have a melancholy feel. He’s looking back, thinking about days and feelings from long ago. He’s taking stock, one supposes. Not so strange at his age, no matter how hard you try to keep your sights firmly forwards. You want to settle your accounts. It’s just in his spirit these days, and he’s always indulged in what his spirit whispered, or his gut instinct, or whatever the hell it is. It’s served him well, in many ways. Not going to start fighting it now. If you want some truth, if you want authenticity (and he’s too old for anything but), you don’t go outside seeking, you dig deeper inside. It’s how it goes.

This demo today. Has a timeless feel, a sound that echoes through the ages. People going way, way back would recognize its cadence, its rhythm, its pulse. It reaches back to a place where many cultures can meet, and understand each other in this language. His jam, through and through. He nods to the beautiful riff. The melody and the arrangements play with textures from both sides of the Gibraltar strait.

The obsessive structure gets him thinking about things that return again and again and again. With his eyes shut, and his mind at peace, he lets the music talk to him. He lets his thoughts respond. Visions of scorched earth and tall mud walls, the bright dashes of the red blossom of the pomegranate trees. Cane roofs for shade and shelter. Kids with big brown eyes running barefoot down narrow streets. The small patios painted white, the window sills and thresholds painted that unspeakable shade of blue. Roads, dust, driving, heat, wind as hot as an oven burning his face, tugging at his hair. Blaring sun. Walking, walking, on and on and on, miles and miles and miles, here and there and farther still, towards sights unseen, sounds unheard, new souls to meet, the pulse of life moving ever onwards. Walking joyfully towards new adventures, with Jimmy. 

Stars so clear you could see infinity, old as time itself. Sitting side by side on a rough, torn rug, in comfortable silence. They’ve always been comfortable sharing silences. Much more than serious talks. With Jimmy, there was never much of a need for talking. They could meet and hear each other so clearly in the music. In the music, they’d lay their hearts bare, trusting the other would understand what they were seeing. 

Their magic was powerful. They usually did. 

The Atlas with snow-capped tops dominated the landscape. The earth glistened with the silvery glow of moon and stars. Cold all around, except where his body touched Jimmy’s. Flushed cheeks from the small, cheery flames.

Alone, together, under the stars, surrounded by ageless things, primeval, which he could hold in his hand, perhaps his own the first and last to touch them. Rock, earth, tree. The real stuff. The substance. _ Everything else is bollocks, Jimmy_, he thought at the ghost in his mind. _ Everything else is just hot air. _

_ But not us. _

Not them. 

He remembers the touch of the rough blanket they shared on those wonderfully cold nights under the starry skies on the south side of the Atlas mountains. The smell. Living, animal, the musk of wool, and the dusty scent of long use under the scorching sun. And just as that blanket, as thin and threadbare as it is in places, the stuff that binds Jimmy and him together has stood the test of time. They’ve come all this way, overcoming pitfalls, steep passes, forbidding cliffs. Climbing the tallest peaks had been easy. There were some ravines along the path which at the time had seemed impossible to cross. 

It left its marks. Neither is without them. Very deep wounds they inflicted upon each other, and though they may be healed, you can still feel where they broke skin, flesh, bone. Injuries ripping and slowly knitting back again, sometimes showing an ugly, bulky seam. And just like an old wound can alter the way you walk, so these wounds changed them in essential ways, how they walk in the world, how they live in it. They carry them wherever they go, like their old, sagging skins. 

_ Just like, just like, just like I scarred you. _

_ Just like, just like, just like I scarred you. _

How young they were, once. Remember? There was nothing on their shoulders, on their backs, they had no past. The only way was forwards. 

The place Jimmy wanted to get to, he had never been to before. An impossible place, Wonderland, a heightened state where music was real, the kick, the rush. The land of dreams, the land of riches, of glory, of life eternal. Not tame and not small and very much not gentle. Jimmy plucked him out of dreary old Birmingham, and perhaps meant to devour him, feed on him, use him, but instead. Oh, instead.

_ I was a stranger here inside your promised land _

_ that turned me inside out and turned me upside down _

Robert extends his hands. Hands are incorruptible tell-tales. Your words can lie, your smile can lie, but hands only know to tell the truth. Like these. Marked with age, crinkled, spotted, the parchment quality of the skin. Robert turns his hands and contemplates the palms for a long, long time. The palms that have held us.

The palms that held us. _ Us_. A naked flame, never still, always changing, forever essentially the same. Burning them at times, consuming them, warming them up at others. Flaring sky high at times, so bright the whole world could see it, the whole world could feel it. So weak at times, you could barely find it. You’d think you could put it out with a blink. 

But here it is. Here it is, still. Look at it, Jimmy. The same old fire. 

_ I carry fire for you _

_ Here in my naked hand _

Robert closes his fists, turns his eyes outside.

Problem with comfortable silences is that sometimes things are left unspoken which ought to be talked about. Otherwise they build up, rust accumulating in the crevices, causing unnecessary pain, fucking up the whole damn thing. 

You’d think that Robert would be good at talking. Doesn’t he half like talking. But when it mattered, he was dumb, tongue-tied. Some things were so vast, so dreadful, Robert could only lock them up inside. Like a city struck by the plague, all you can do is shut the gates and wait for the terrible ill to consume itself. There is no cure and no relief. No point talking about it. And Jimmy, oh Jimmy. Forever hiding, this one, only very fucking poorly. So mysterious, eh? _ It’s emotional constipation, silly, nothing mysterious about it. _

And here they are now, and Robert has no bloody idea what “here” means, as usual, because they haven’t talked, _really_ talked, in bloody _ years_. Which makes it even harder than it already is to just pick up the phone. Because one is still a little vain, you see, a little proud. One can be wary of making a call and getting no answer.

Then again, the thing with age is, so many things that used to seem solemn and heavy, now seem ridiculous. Even yourself. Especially yourself. And certainly vanity and pride. Robert should just pick up the bleeding phone. 

Even when he’s not in his life, Jimmy’s never too far from his thoughts. But there are several ways to think about Jimmy. Sometimes it’s just feed for his songs. There’s a lot of wealth there to plunder, a long, deep rumble of life. Their tale is so long, it has had so many moments, there are so many faces and nuances and textures and instants to draw inspiration from. Robert can sink his hand blindly in that mixed bag of shiny things, and pull out the kernel of another song. Jimmy’s not the only muse he’s had, but it’s one of the earliest, and one of the mightiest, and the longest-lived. He was there when Robert was only starting to blossom, and he’s still here, as the petals, faded, dry, start to drop. The rawest and truest and most beautiful stuff Robert’s ever done, in one way or another, came from Jimmy. It’s a sobering thought. 

Yes, their story makes good songs, and sometimes that’s all they are. Robert’s bread and butter, with no higher expectations than making up an album, perhaps going on tour, make Robert happy, perhaps some other folks too. It’s hardly nothing, but that’s it, really, that’s all.

When is a song not just a song then? Well, sometimes, Robert sinks his hand in this old treasure chest, expecting rags and trinkets, and pulls out a beating heart instead. 

Jimmy’s face returns to him as it is now. The thought of never seeing it again punches him hard in the gut.

It’s a strange dance they ebb and flow to, sort of drifting in separate seas and separate lives, lost to each other, until some unexpected current brings them both together, for but a spell; and then, just like that, pulls them apart again. One might be tempted to say they have no control over it, but that’s bollocks. It’s just easier this way. Spares them those terrifying conversations Jimmy dreads and Robert has despaired from.

This sea of chance they drift in flows from them, it’s the whim of their spirits that rule the tides, but they don’t really control it. Like thunder and lightning on the horizon, you can anticipate that a change is coming, and you’re headed straight for it. You feel the powers of sea and sky conjuring up to take you there, right into the storm. For even after all these years, there is nothing calm or easy about Jimmy and him. Which is, of course, how one knows that it’s extraordinary, and that it’s alive. Alive and thriving, actually, if you can believe that. (Can you hear this? That’s Robert’s bloody heart, that is, set to race because he thinks he can hear thunder, and the air carries a scent of seasalt and rotten weeds.)

They’ve learned through bitter experience that they must allow things to take their course. The right moment for them cannot be manufactured. You may nudge, yes. Steer, slightly, yes. But this ship, adrift, must find its own way to shore, or it doesn’t feel right, and nothing good comes from it. A game of patience. In the end, they’ll come around. Their lives will align, a crossroads will appear. They’ll wake up on the same beach, under the same stars. And in the meantime, they must see other lovers and other musicians dip in and out of each other’s lives. It stings of course, they’re only human. But they’ve learned it’s only a shallow cut -annoying, but hardly deadly. They’ve learned that the silent bond between them never fades. It never weakens, it never falters. It may lay dormant for years, but when it awakens, it will feel as true and strong and perennial as it always has.

_I sit and wait for you like so many others do _

_ Just like they do for me, well, so I do for you. _

For a long, long time, they've been for each other just a tiny dot across the sea, and their routes have not met. A long, long time. Or does it feel so because time seems to run faster and faster, burning days like paper, years flaring and fading like a matchstick’s flame? 

But look at him. He extends his hands again; who _ is _ this old geezer on his shoulders, like a crust that grew over him little by little, and has almost enclosed completely in salt and rock the young wild thing he used to be, the young wild thing he still feels like, and he means to go to the fucking grave as, so help him gods? 

Robert’s always lived his life both as if there was no tomorrow, and like he was going to live forever. Live urgently, but without rush. Look to the future, but be present in the moment. A suspended limbo of pure energy, no contemplation, just being. Fire, music, body, on and on and on. What’s done is done, what’s past is past. Memories have a way of hurting, both good and bad. They’re nothing. Shadows. Best not dwell. 

Robert doesn’t belong with shadows, always running in the light. He still feels young. He comes from good stock. He might clock off tomorrow, or live another twenty years in good health, who knows. Either way, his peace is made. Onward and upward. One with all things. Restless, but in peace. 

But Jimmy. 

He thinks of Jimmy’s age, and gets a cold chill in his bones. 

Adrift, so far apart they can’t even see each other. How long since they were together for more than a few minutes. Alone together, that is. There are always so many people, you can’t hear yourself think. You can’t find the right thing to say. You can barely glimpse your old friend there, in a stare, in a smile.

He misses his friend.

He’s impatient now. The fucking end of things looming, inevitable, and though Robert can deal with this, he thinks of never seeing Jimmy again, never being with him again, and he doesn’t think he can deal with that. 

Perhaps they shouldn’t leave it to the current, this time. Perhaps not. To hell with omens and tides and “the right time.” Perhaps Robert will hoist his sails, and put his oar in the water, and head for the storm, hoping to wash out in their beach come morning.

_ I’m reaching out to you across the broken days _

_ All through the gathering years beyond these lonely ways. _

Oh, Robert can see him right now, and he can hear him, grumpy old sod that he is (always was.) He’ll say, _ “Whatever for?” _

And Robert will smile with that particular twinkle in his eye, and it will be _ their _ smile, and there, Jimmy, that’ll be your answer. Shut him up, that will. Always has. Whatever for, you ask? Because I can still make you blush.

One last dance, Jimmy, just one more. What say you? Before we have to be parted for good, before the light is gone, before we both must go into the night.

Oh, gloomy thoughts. Very much unlike himself. Still alive, still full of beans, still making songs after all these years. At his creaky old age, still learning, still soaking in new stuff and blowing it back into the world with the shape of his own spirit and his weak, cracked, truest voice.

And just listen to this. Good shite. He checks the scribbles he’s filled the paper with. There’s plenty of work left to do, but it's taking shape. There’s a theme, isn’t there. It’s solid. Enigmatic, bare and stark, but eloquent. Entices more than frustrates, he thinks. 

And to one who would listen, it will hold no secrets. The point is clear enough. If only he will listen. 

_ And if the words don’t make it, Jimmy, maybe the music will. Remember those nights by the foot of the Atlas? The light, the sounds? My mouth, my hands? I never forget, Jimmy. _

Robert listens to what he’s got for now. The demo, with his tentative vocals superimposed, is taking shape.

_ I carry fire for you _

_ here in my naked hand _

_ I bare my heart to you _

_ If you will understand. _

**Author's Note:**

> The impulse and the inspiration behind this thing emerged from listening to Robert's 2017 album "Carry Fire", most particularly from being electrified by the lyrics (and the whole thing, really, it's so fucking lovely) of "Dance with you tonight." 
> 
> The thoughts, inner voices, feelings, etc were inspired and refined during wonderful conversations with Ledbythreads, sharing headcanons, delving into stuff, debating, considering, pondering, and lotsa lotsa squeeing. 
> 
> I have SO MANY THINGS to thank you for, Leds. You found me when I was just dipping my toes into the LZ fandom, grabbed my ankle, said "COME ON IN THE WATER'S FINE" and dragged me down below. The nicest bloody welcome to any fandom I have ever had, and a truthful introduction, because the LZ fandom of Tumblr is a tiny but lively and lovely place with people who are basically very nice to each other, enthusiastic, passionate, and just. Yeah. I've only just started to meet you guys, but I likes you very much. You're what fandom is all about. I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> BUT NOT JUST THAT. Not only did you, Leds, held the door to the fandom open for me, and greeted me with a hug and a smile, not only have you initiated me into the Zeppelin mysteries, but also made it possible for me to see Robert in concert. Yes siree, I would have missed it without you. I will never ever thank you enough for all of this, so this is a first attempt at repaying the debt. 
> 
> This story is for you. A lot of it is also by you. Thank you for that too.
> 
> And this story is also for Smallwinterchilds, because of the thrilling Golden God pics ping-pong reblogging competitions (we don't play to win, we play to KILL.) Thank you, darling, because you fanned an incipient passion that's the joy of my life these days, and for everything else. I love having you in my dash and in my day. 
> 
> And last but not least, this is for Soundsof71. Thank you, Sounds, for your blog, for your passion and enthusiasm, for... being you, in general, for the wonderful music you've already made me discover, and the music to come, and for our talks so far, and hopefully, to many many more.


End file.
